For Whom the Bell Tolls
by k8ec
Summary: 'Sherlock was buried today. In a quiet little cemetery somewhere far away from his battlefield, his London.'


For Whom the Bell Tolls ….. 2

_Set: Post TRF _[SPOILERS!]

_Warnings: Angst, Previous Major Character Death._

_Rating: K+_

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John & company belong to ACD, & the BBC. I just get to play with the characters minds!_

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**AN: **Companion piece to '_A Part of the Main'_ but stands alone. Please review!

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**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

**8th August 2012:**

Sherlock was buried today.

In a quiet little cemetery somewhere far away from his battlefield, his London.

He would have hated every minute of it – the service, the flowers, the music, the sycophants and the location!

Too quiet! Too staid! Too ordinary! - Too _BORING!_

_[And somewhere in the back of my mind, even now, I can hear the screech of a tortured violin punctuating every falsely gracious and overtly patronizing smile Mycroft gives]!_

I didn't really expect it, but the chapel was packed with people from all walks of life – tradesmen, shop keepers, business men and women, former public schoolboys now showing their incipient middle-age, circling journalistic vultures, even the odd Toff – probably more likely friends of the 'bereaved' brother rather than the deceased, but who knows!

Of all the many _hundreds_ of people he helped, the many important or valuable items he returned to supposedly grateful owners, the 'reputations' of the well-to-do which he ensured remained intact (even if it had been in his own abrasive, condescending manner), a mere _fraction_ of those well-heeled clients had made the effort to attend the funeral of the man now vilified as a fraud – and most of those came only out of curiosity or 'to be seen'.

Only Lestrade and Cummings came from the Yard, though they didn't stay for the interment.

Molly, Mike and Susan (the cleaner for the mortuary level), came from St. Bart's. Sarah from the Clinic.

Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner, plus the 'married ones' from next door!

There were a reasonable number of 'ordinary' boring folk, some of them actually crying – much to the sneering delight of the Scribes and Pharisees present.

But by far and away, the largest proportion of 'mourners' were homeless people.

The 'nobodies' Sherlock had helped without the expectation of any returns.

Hundreds of them - and not just from London, either. Maisie told me later that some of them had traveled for hours to get to the small chapel on the outskirts of the city he loved so much, just to pay their respects.

Joey, who Sherlock proved was the owner of a rather fine watch, stolen from him by a pubescent prat.

Clement, who Sherlock saved from being bashed to death in a 'Thrill-kill'.

Dolly and Rae, both prostitutes, who witnessed a murder and were in danger of becoming the next victims.

Wilkins, saved from an abusive mother; Dot, recipient of an unexpected small 'inheritance'; Barlow, who Sherlock put in a word for with a local eatery, and who was now night manager of the same establishment!

So many stories that will never now be told, going back decades to when Sherlock himself was no more than a child.

I think today I heard at least a quarter of them. I intend to collect them all.

Yet still the idiots of the Press and the Met with their 'funny little brains' think he was a fraud!

The _imbeciles!_

Today I found myself in full agreement with Sherlock's oft expressed view that ordinary people are so stupid and unobservant!

I might have given my sympathy for that opinion away somewhat when I gave my short eulogy, staring down from the lectern at so many unbelievers.

I'll probably be 'quoted' in tomorrow's paper as the deluded fool who tried to justify a fraud. Again.

But if even a hundred people who read that story tomorrow, change their minds and _believe_, I think it will be worth all the ridicule and vilification I may have to endure.

Because, like all the 'little' people at the chapel, I _**know **_Sherlock wasn't a fraud.

I _know_ he was capable of looking at the chemical residues left over in the trace of a footprint and determining the whereabouts of a kidnapped child.

I _know_ he could look at a broken, limping ex-serviceman and see the adrenaline junky buried within.

And I know and shall believe to my dying day that Sherlock did not jump from the roof of St. Bart's in a fit of despair and guilt.

If he jumped it was because there was no other way for him to thwart Moriarty's end game.

And though it takes me to the end of my life, _**I. will. prove. it.**_

Not only have those of us who knew him well lost a dear friend, but London has lost a champion, a defender and a mind the like of which we shall not see again.

_Sherlock Holmes: 6 January 1979 – 15 June 2012_

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